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a piece of narration from the upcoming film noir by famed filmmaker and professional alcoholic Hugh Wonderbang  a spoof by Magellan Reyes “I slammed my fist on the table, mad that she wouldn’t share with me all her dirty little secrets. I knew she was there when Bobby met his untimely demise, but the dame just wouldn’t crack. The putrid musk generated by all these dirty little lies gets caught in your nostrils and layered on your skin like grease, and no amount of baths’ll clean ‘em out. I was sick of what she had to say, sick of dames giving me the run around, sick of the whole damn thing. I grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her good, tell me what you know I said. I didn’t mean to be so rough, but it didn’t seem to work anyhow. The dame just sat there, laughing like a wicked witch damning me to hell. Well she can damn me to hell as much as she wants, I thought, what do I care—I’m already there. She cursed at me as I made my way over to the bar. She told me I was just a lousy drunk, that I didn’t know nothing and never would. But I didn’t care. I was tired. This life has a way of wearing a man down, of turning all he loves against him. She cursed at me again as I downed my glass of whiskey. But I ignored her, and just poured another drink…”
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by Natalia Macias  shades of melancholia
i let my clock fall three minutes behind then four and with the changing of the season it becomes 56 minutes ahead i let it because it doesn’t mean much to me my body never really observed it’s rigid lines likes more of the mental gymnastics it takes for me to calculate the difference between the bedside clock and the number on my phone, the one in my mom’s car and the one above the stove, … i calculate my age for the day even by the hour it changes traveling from 17 to 21 to 54 my body would expand to create years in the span of a couple of hours when i close my eyes time looks like my stretch marks expands, retracts breathes in and out since the last time i’ve seen it my body says see how i’ve grown look at the new space i’ve created our connection to time isn’t new love but ancient recognition it isn’t shivers and goosebumps, it’s reverence and sustained power just below the surface of your skin sometimes i feel like a stone in a zen garden the sand moves like water around me making serene landscapes … i calculate the amount of grief i’ll carry with me today i often underestimate, but it’s okay the weight of the many versions of myself that i’ve lost tug at the hem of my jeans who i could’ve been, the lives i promised myself forced to slow down i realize i live in shades of melancholia and not wanting it any other way i do wish i could separate the two realities jump from one to the next all at my convenience but for now i live in them both simultaneously mourning quietly and with any empathy i can spare feeding a new found fascination with dichotomies and the painfully bright way they merge … my body often forgets it’s own language the different regions have new slang and their accents make it hard to understand and when my body forgets it’s own language it only knows how to scream my body has made the space in between my home standing on the cusp of overwhelming sound and complete silence familiarizing myself with uncertainty and many people only pass through but i’ve been trying to make it my home building upon shifting land i wonder what my body would say if you asked it what it feels like to live in the space in between n.m. ~ a reflection on crip time by ellen samuels |